


‘What did you think it said?’

by Crowgirl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Oblivious, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 16:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21164300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: Aziraphale vaguely assumes that someone will protest and the sign will go down.





	‘What did you think it said?’

The first time they walk past the sign, Aziraphale simply tuts and goes on with what he had been saying to Crowley about a particularly fine set of Austen due to come on the market in the next fifty or so years. 

Aziraphale vaguely assumes that someone will protest and the sign will go down. Soho is Soho, but _honestly._

* * *

The second time, Aziraphale is by himself and he frowns at the sign but he’s late for dinner; Crowley will tease him heartlessly as it is for having gotten distracted rearranging the shelves of children’s literature he has courtesy of Adam. No need to add further delays.

* * *

The third time, Crowley is with him and, Aziraphale feels, ostentatiously _ignoring_ both the sign and the wine bar it’s attached to.

‘Really, my dear, I know saucy is your thing, as it were, but--’

‘What?’ Crowley breaks off in the middle of what he had been saying about the relative superiority of sauces on fresh pasta and frowns at him. ‘That’s just what I’m saying, angel, a good tomato is barely a sauce at all--’

Aziraphale waves a hand over his shoulder. ‘That new bar.’

Crowley looks back. ‘What about it?’

Aziraphale sighs. ‘I’m not expecting you to apologize or anything like that--’

Crowley blinks at him slowly then turns on his heel and walks back to the bar. He surveys the front, takes in the rather tacky red upholstery, ignores the young waitress who gives him a frankly salacious grin as she walks out, and -- Aziraphale is sure -- reads the sign over more than once. He glances back at Aziraphale, pushes his sunglasses down his nose and gives the place a last look, and then strolls back. ‘I don’t see the problem.’

‘Oh, _really,_ Crowley--’

‘Well, how many corks have we had between us over the years?’

_‘Crowley--’_ Aziraphale stops. Swallows. ‘Corks?’

‘It’s a _wine bar,_ angel, what else would it be?’

Aziraphale’s mind goes blank. He cannot think of a single other word that a wine bar might use on its advertising other than the one which he now realises far too late not even the Sohoiest of Soho wine bars would use. 

Crowley’s peering at him and the corner of his mouth starts to twitch up. ‘What did you think it said?’

‘No, no, no, I mean, yes, of course, corks--’

‘Aziraphale.’ Crowley interrupts him gently but firmly. ‘You only turn that color when you’re lying and you know I can taste it.’ He flicks the tip of his tongue over his lower lip to prove the point and nods. _‘Definitely_ the flavor of a lying angel. So either Gabriel’s lurking ‘round the corner or--’

Aziraphale turns away. ‘I -- I made a very _simple_ slip of the -- er -- eye.’ Crowley is staring at him, Aziraphale _knows_ he is. ‘Shall we get on? It’s a shame to waste a lovely afternoon standing by a bin.’

* * *

‘Cocks,’ Crowley says thoughtfully, after they’d settled onto their bench and into a comfortable silence. He’s lounging on his end of the park bench, legs stretched well out into the path. 

‘Pardon?’ Aziraphale sprinkles the last of his crisps for the pigeons and turns the bag itself into a nice bit of compost for the hedge.

‘That’s the only word I can think of that you’d misread for corks.’

Aziraphale pauses, feeling as if the air has suddenly gone heavy around him. ‘Oh.’

‘Yes, _oh._ Because I can’t figure out why that would put you in such a tizzy.’ Crowley pulls his limbs in with startling abruptness and rearranges himself sideways, facing Aziraphale. _‘Or_ why you’d think _I_ had something to do with it.’

‘Well…’ Aziraphale tries a wave of the hand but it comes across as feeble and they both know it. ‘It -- seemed like your style.’

‘My style,’ Crowley repeats. ‘What would you know about my style?’

‘Well, I have been witness to it for quite some time.’

‘And when have I been the sort to mess around with words on signs?’

‘Er -- well -- there was that time in Byzantium--’

‘That was a _map,_ angel. I misdirected an _army._ Two of them, technically. Try again.’

‘There was that time in South Africa--’

‘Map again. Mucked up the diamond mines for months.’

Aziraphale takes a breath -- then lets it out in a long sigh. ‘No, I know it isn’t your sort of thing. You didn’t even try it on the Bible when you had ample opportunity.’

Crowley nods. ‘So.’

‘So,’ Aziraphale echoes and weaves his fingers together. 

‘Cocks,’ Crowley says again, enunciating each letter with undue care and popping the last consonant in a nearly indecent fashion.

Aziraphale sighs and shuts his eyes, pinching at the bridge of his nose. ‘I don’t suppose you’d believe I’d been reading? About … chicken … breeding?’ The silence is an eloquent answer and he sighs again. ‘Fine. I suppose I deserve this.’ He draws in a deep breath and straightens his shoulders, fixing his gaze out over the lake. ‘I _had_ thought you might be -- er -- trying a -- a lateral approach.’

‘A lateral approach to -- what? Exactly?’

Aziraphale unknots the fingers of one hand and waves it in the space between them. _‘This._ Whatever -- _this_ has become over the years.’ In the privacy of his own mind, Aziraphale has some ideas of what words _he_ might apply -- but he’s never been absolutely sure that Crowley even noticed, let alone gave the question any consideration.

Then there had been that whole exchange about freedom of choice -- _We can do whatever we like now,_ Crowley had said and, really, when have they _not_ done that? They’ve been doing more or less what they like from the first afternoon of their meeting -- except for this _one_ thing. 

Aziraphale’s heart had beaten a little heavier to think that all this time Crowley _had_ been noticing and now he _had_ felt the same moment of possibility. Of course, it would be just like Crowley not to be straight-forward about it. So when Aziraphale noticed the sign -- front and center in the plate glass window of a business Crowley _knows_ he walks past regularly--

‘And you feel a lateral approach would involve--’ Crowley leans back slightly, his eyebrows pulling together thoughtfully. ‘Mm. Hm.’

Aziraphale closes his eyes again. ‘I don’t expect you _not_ to mock me.’

Crowley makes a thoughtful noise. ‘Wasn’t my first thought.’

Aziraphale pauses, cracks open the eye closest to Crowley, and peers at him. ‘What _was_ your first thought?’

Crowley shrugs. ‘Well, did you mean yours or mine? Or each alternately? Or both at once?’

Aziraphale has to swallow several times before he can answer. ‘I’m not sure I thought it out to that extent.’ 

‘Pity.’

‘Is it?’ 

Crowley nods, his eyes now fixed on Aziraphale’s face and Aziraphale has to open _both_ eyes to make sure he’s seeing this correctly.

‘And honestly,’ Crowley says softly, slipping closer on the bench, ‘it’s a little unimaginative of you, angel.’

‘It is?’

‘Well, we can have any combination we like, can’t we?’ Crowley slides a hand up his own thigh and Aziraphale’s eyes follow the motion helplessly as Crowley’s slender fingers press the spot where the inseams of his jeans meet. Crowley makes a sort of purring noise and pushes down against his own fingertips for a moment before letting his thumb hook into his jeans pocket and his fingers curl slack against his hip as if that was what he had meant with the gesture all along. ‘I’ve had to go with the internal sort for _ages_ now. Wasn’t safe to be around you otherwise.’

Aziraphale stares at him for a minute, his ears ringing slightly, then jolts to his feet. ‘If we’re going to discuss this further,’ he says, reaching down and grabbing Crowley’s hand, ‘then I think we need to do so elsewhere.’

Crowley comes with the tug, rising up in a single smooth movement so they’re almost chest to chest. ‘Is that so.’

‘It absolutely is.’ Aziraphale nods, weaving their fingers together. ‘If nothing else...’ He takes the last tiny step that closes the distance between them and presses himself against Crowley’s thigh. ‘You were always better at elementary precautions than I.’

Crowley’s breath hisses in. Aziraphale sees him swallow and Crowley licks his lips. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll let me get away with a joke about popping corks--’

Aziraphale snorts. ‘Absolutely not. Although…’ He flattens his free hand over the hollowness of Crowley’s stomach above his belt buckle. ‘...I’ve honestly no idea what I might let you get away with in the moment. As it were.’

‘Oh, lets find out,’ Crowley breathes and the pigeons that had been gathering around their feet are disappointed in their hopes of another bag of crisps.

**Author's Note:**

> The original sign -- "We Want Your Corks" -- is indeed on a wine bar in Brattleboro, Vermont, and, yes, I did misread it the first time I walked past.


End file.
